


Mine, too

by PlainJane



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, DaddySherlock, Food Sex, M/M, MommaJohn, Mpreg, Mycroft's Meddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-20
Updated: 2012-05-20
Packaged: 2017-11-05 17:07:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlainJane/pseuds/PlainJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's knocked up, Sherlock's figuring it all out and Mycroft may not be such a bastard after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Mine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/394785) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account). 



> A follow up to Mine--probably didn't need a sequel, but I love a happy ending. Predicated on my (lame) theories that 1) alpha Sherlock might be even more difficult than the regular one (especially during puberty), 2) an omega's heightened sense of smell during heat and the early stages of pregnancy would make them very susceptible to, say, the smell of rotting flesh (problematic if you live with SH), and 3) pregnancy following a breeding heat is a given. I left my name on this one...all errors are my own--apologies! Thanks for all the lovely comments on this, and on the prequel--so encouraging :)

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, brother?” Mycroft continued his path from the entry of his flat directly to the liquor cabinet. It had been a long day—a deposed dictator could be so draining.

“Do you know I was actually beginning to trust you again?” Sherlock was seated in a high-backed armchair near the fire, facing away from the door. 

Mycroft poured two glasses of whiskey. He was not surprised by Sherlock’s presence. He was never surprised. 

“Trust? You? Unlikely,” he scoffed. He took a sip from his own glass as he walked the other over to where his younger brother sat. “You became complacent. You thought you’d managed to get your own way.”

Mycroft stopped at Sherlock’s elbow and held out the heavy crystal. Sherlock considered it for a moment before taking it. He took a sip as his older brother sat in the chair opposite. “Why?”

“Why what?” Mycroft asked blandly. “Given the events of the past week I would think you’d want to be more specific.”

Sherlock ground his teeth in frustration. “Why did you try to bond me so young? You never told me why.”

Mycroft sighed and stared at the whiskey in his hands. “Do you remember what you were like, Sherlock? Reckless, erratic, sometimes violent, unconcerned about your own safety or anyone else’s. Especially after our father died. You would disappear for days on end—Mummy would be frantic. Then you would saunter in with a broken wrist and an acid burn and declare that she was an idiot for not knowing where you had gone. You ignored your instructors at school and you were disruptive and contentious…”

“School was dull.”

“You nearly killed another alpha!” Mycroft snapped. “And over some ridiculous argument with your little beta friend.” 

“Victor.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and took a deep breath. “So we brought you home. But when we could manage to get you to study, your experiments nearly destroyed the house. Your propensity for extreme responses to boredom only increased after Mummy died, and you ate and slept less and less—you were even worse then than before John.”

“Don’t call him that,” Sherlock growled. “You don’t deserve to.”

Mycroft smiled. “I’m pleased you feel such a protective instinct for him. That can only be for the good, considering.”

“I warned you about putting cameras in the flat. They have been destroyed.”

“I needed to be sure you wouldn’t hurt him.” 

“I would never hurt John,” Sherlock said coldly.

“You were not in your right mind. Neither was he.” Mycroft pointed—Sherlock blushed, tugging his scarf back up over his neck to cover the marks John had left on him.

“And whose fault is that?”

“I admit it was high-handed,” Mycroft agreed. “I had it on good authority, however, that weaning you both off of your suppressants gradually would be less of a risk.”

“And less noticeable.”

“Naturally. But I assure you I had the best of intentions. Anyone can see that _Dr. Watson_ loves you. Do you regret what happened?”

Sherlock stared into the fire. “How could I?”

Mycroft nodded, satisfied. He stood and walked to the console table behind them. He retrieved two folders and returned to his chair. 

“I gave him his freedom after you ‘liberated’ yourself from rehab. I didn’t expect you to disappear for six years, but I knew it would be some time before you resurfaced. Had my position at the time warranted the resources I now have access to, I would have found you sooner.”

Sherlock snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous.” The brothers glared at one another for a moment. Mycroft finally glanced down at the files in his lap.

“Nevertheless, there was no reason to punish the good doctor.” Mycroft crossed his legs. “I authorized his continued use of the contraband hormone suppressant and ensured his public status as a beta. And I approved his enlistment. Legally, he became my responsibility the moment you bonded.”

“John doesn’t know.”

“He knows he was given permission to remain in hiding. However, I allowed him to believe that the bribe his uncle provided him with was sufficient to get past the army physical examination.”

“His uncle,” Sherlock breathed. “Of course.”

“He contacted me when he received the guardianship papers, to negotiate. He wanted his nephew to be able to make as many of his own choices as possible, for as long as he could. Dr. Watson chose to serve his country.”

Sherlock was silent, sullen. 

“I did meet his uncle, not long before he died. He became critically ill shortly after Jo—” Sherlock raised a warning eyebrow. “Dr. Watson was deployed to Afghanistan. I thought it would comfort him to know someone else had his nephew’s best interests at heart. He was very interested in you—was quite impressed with your mind and with the way you were beginning to turn yourself around.”

Sherlock tried not to look chagrined. He preferred not to remember his struggles to stay clean.

“Really, he was a remarkable man,” Mycroft continued. “I was very sorry when he passed.”

Sherlock looked incredulous. “And you think he would have approved of the way you’ve meddled in John’s life since?”

“Michael Watson was an omega, Sherlock. He was very well aware of the limited choices available to his kind.” Mycroft released a weary breath. “We agreed that—in the end—John’s best chance for happiness was with you.”

Sherlock was too surprised to respond to his brother’s use of John’s first name.

Mycroft smiled a little. “Still, he’d prepared enough of the hormone suppressant to last for several years, just in case. And I promised him I would safeguard the formula, for a time when our society might be more liberal-minded with regard to omega rights.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Why would he trust you?”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Mycroft asked. “I have protected John’s secret and watched over him for 15 years.”

Sherlock opened the first folder to find photos of John: in basic training, at his sister’s bonding ceremony, at his first deployment, on patrol somewhere in Europe, in surgery somewhere in Africa, at the camp in Afghanistan, on the streets of London with his cane. He traced a finger over the line of John’s tanned face, trying to imagine how different things could have been.

“But you couldn’t protect him from the enemy.”

“No,” Mycroft said thoughtfully. “I kept him as safe as I could, but John’s skills and strength of character are considerable. And his instincts to heal and protect are very powerful, regardless of the cost to his person. True valour is a rare commodity. I deeply regret that I could not prevent his injury.”

Sherlock closed the first folder and opened the next. “And you did all of this because…?” His voice died off as he began to sift through the next set of photos: Sherlock sleeping rough, in a cell covered in his own vomit, in a hospital bed recovering from another overdose, in the treatment facility.

“In spite of the path you chose, I continued to hold out hope. However slim it might have seemed, at times.”

Sherlock felt an unwelcome tightness in his throat. “You think that excuses you for manipulating John? For ‘arranging’ for us to breed when neither of us was prepared?”

“He was free to leave you at any time. I had Dr. Stamford put him in your path but I would not have forced him to stay; I was merely giving him the opportunity to…” Mycroft sighed. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “John loves you, but you know it is more complicated than that. His only chance at a complete life is with you, Sherlock. Nothing else would ever have been quite enough for him—you are in his bloodstream.”

Sherlock stood and began to pace.

“And your only chance at becoming the man you could be is with John,” Mycroft continued. “In the short time he has been with you, he has brought out some of your best attributes and helped to curb some of the worst. I think he actually enhances your abilities.” Mycroft finished his whiskey and set the glass on the table beside him. “Naturally you will always be…different…but you don’t need me to point out that you are a much better version of yourself than you were before.”

Mycroft stood, tugging on his waistcoat. 

“I tried to bond you so young because I didn’t think I could keep you alive long enough for you to fulfil your potential.” The words were heavy between them.

“It was a calculated risk. The doctors couldn’t guarantee that bonding and breeding would have a significant impact on your behaviour, but there was a good chance the hormonal changes would have helped. I had to try something.”

Mycroft started for the door to his private study; Sherlock stepped in his path. “I’m meant to believe you locked me in rehab for two years because you care about me.”

“What you believe is up to you,” Mycroft replied calmly. He stepped around his younger brother. When he reached the door; he hesitated.

“After the first failure, I realized your omega would need to be someone very special. It took two years to find John, and I was not the only one to recognize his worth. When he turned up in the system after his arrest, I had to pay off two other families to secure him.” 

Mycroft turned slightly, looking over his shoulder. “I only wish I had been able to get you to him sooner, so you could have spoken to him before his heat began. Unfortunately, my influence then was not sufficient to arrange his release from that room—I had hoped your bonding could take place somewhere less…”

“Barbaric?”

Mycroft inclined his head, pulling the door open. “John is your miracle, brother. I suggest you take very good care of him.”


	2. Flashback

“Oh, my.” 

John stared at the scratches on the kitchen floor. He was on his hands and knees, scrubbing the lino. 

He had been cleaning for two hours and had barely made a dent. His three-day heat had taken almost as much of a toll on the flat as it had on his body. 

When the burning and desperation had finally passed, Sherlock had drawn a hot bath for them to share. He’d washed John tenderly and thoroughly (and—John suspected—analyzed every bite, scratch and bruise for future reference) and then wrapped him in his robe and a blanket on the sofa. He’d stripped the bed and put the sheets in to wash and brought John tea. He’d made John promise to stay right there.

Then he had proceeded to search the flat for cameras (which he’d found and destroyed) and disappeared.

Of course, Sherlock hadn’t said where he was going, but he hadn’t needed to. John just hoped they didn’t kill each other—he wasn’t prepared to raise a child alone.

Sitting there, though, John had started to look around at the mess and he simply hadn’t been able to stand it.

Furniture had been upended in the sitting room, they’d managed to break one of the lamps and there were some very telling stains on the carpet. Sherlock had made an effort to tidy the bedroom when he did the bedding, but it was still a disaster. And John wasn’t entirely sure they wouldn’t have to set fire to the mattress. 

Then there was the kitchen, which looked as though it had been sacked by Vikings.

The details were still a little sketchy, but he did remember that somewhere near the end he had found himself quite hungry. The snacks Sherlock had managed to scrounge in between waves had sustained them, but John had been desperate for something more to eat. They had made it back to the bedroom by then, and Sherlock, surprisingly, was asleep…

\-----------

John padded out to the kitchen. He glanced around quickly for something fast to ramp his blood sugar back up. The breaks were getting longer, and each wave was less intense. Still, it wouldn’t be long before he was crawling over Sherlock, drowning in the heady pungency of his alpha scent, begging to be fucked. Again. 

He ran a hand through sweat-dampened and tousled hair, surveying the wreckage of Sherlock’s earlier reconnaissance. Seeing nothing obvious in the already opened cupboards, he reached for the refrigerator. He threw the door open without thinking…and immediately doubled over.

“Oh god,” he moaned. The smell from Sherlock’s latest decomp experiment hit him like a ton of bricks: the nausea was crippling. He fell to his knees, gagging.

He heard pounding footsteps approaching from the bedroom. 

“John?” Sherlock appeared instantly—hair wild, naked like John and covered in drying bodily fluids. He dropped to the floor beside John and shoved the fridge door closed. “I’m sorry. I’m a bastard. I’m sorry.”

He pulled John’s limp frame into his arms. John clung to him, his arms wrapped around Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock rubbed his back slowly. “Deep breaths, John. Deep breaths. Let it pass.”

They stayed like that for a few minutes before the absurdity of the situation struck John. He started to giggle. Sherlock pulled back and looked at him with a furrowed brow. 

“What’s so funny?”

“You!”

“What? I said I was sorry. I forgot that was in there. Well, I didn’t forget, I just didn’t think…I wasn’t aware it was going to be a problem. Why are you still laughing?”

John pulled back and kissed Sherlock firmly, teasing at the seam of his lips with his tongue. Sherlock opened eagerly and drew the tongue inside, gliding his own alongside with a rumbling noise of pleasure. They sucked and drew on each other for a few minutes, Sherlock pulling John up and over until he was straddling Sherlock’s lap. John rocked gently, rubbing their cocks together.

John released Sherlock’s mouth, kissing across his cheek and down over his jaw. He burrowed into Sherlock’s nape and nuzzled there, inhaling deeply (god, he smelled so very, very good) and tasting again the pale flesh that had been haunting his dreams for months.

“I just don’t know what you’ve done with my Sherlock,” John whispered, between wet, open-mouthed kisses against Sherlock’s naked shoulder. “I’ve been shot at, beaten up, kidnapped twice and nearly blown up and I’ve only been with you a few months. Not to mention that I had to shoot someone for you.”

Sherlock’s arms tightened around him with a very alpha grunt of ownership. 

“And normally you don’t think anything of putting all sorts of offal next to my food.” John kissed his neck before pulling back to regard his mate with an indulgent smile. He pushed one unruly dark curl off Sherlock’s forehead. “Yet here you are apologizing for an experiment.”

“That was all before,” Sherlock said swiftly. “Before we, before you—” He looked down pointedly between them at John’s abdomen. “Things will have to change, John. I realize that. I have to be more careful.” 

John sighed, relaxing into Sherlock’s overly possessive embrace. Sherlock’s clever tongue was lapping across John’s clavicle when John was reminded that he had a purpose and a timeframe: his body was rapidly responding to his alpha’s scent and touch, and his stomach was still growling.

“Food, Sherlock,” John said abruptly, tapping on a shoulder blade. “Hurry—not much time and I’m starving.”

Sherlock pulled back, his breathing ragged. “Food. Right.” 

He scanned the kitchen quickly. There was a tin open on the table, but the biscuits had been consumed hours before. There were also the remains of a tin of beans (eaten cold), a box of crackers and a sliver of cheddar, two apples, four slices of bread and the last of a jar of jam, and three bags of crisps. There wasn’t much left. Frankly, Sherlock was amazed he’d found that much. 

Reluctantly, he slid John from his lap and stood, scratching his head. He was having some difficulty collecting his thoughts with John’s pheromones wafting around him. He was already hard. “I could order a take away, but that won’t get here in time and I’m not sure it’s wise to have someone at the door...or maybe I could call Mrs. Hudson. She’s just downstairs and she might be able to leave something at the top of the stairs—post-menopausal, so she’ll be fine…”

John stroked his calf, leaning in to suck at the back of his knee. “Sherlock, hurry…”

Sherlock groaned, his cock throbbing. He ran a hand over his forehead, glancing out at the sitting room. “Wait!”

“What is it?”

Sherlock strode over to his chair—there was a large silver cooler sitting on the floor beside it with a thermos on top. “Mycroft,” he snarled. 

“Hate him later,” John begged. “Food now.” 

Sherlock picked up the thermos and opened it. “Tea. Still hot.”

“God, yes! I could murder a cuppa.” Sherlock strode back and handed the thermos to John before returning to their surprise picnic. John eagerly poured some of the steaming milky liquid into the thermos cup. He took a long draught and sighed. “So good. What else?” 

“Sandwiches, scones, clotted cream, jam, fruit…for god’s sake! We’re breeding not having high tea!”

“Sherlock! No time—gimme.”

Sherlock returned and slid to the floor beside John with an armful of treasure. He dropped the food between them and John started rooting. Sherlock pulled open one of the sandwiches and handed half to him. “Here, start with this.”

John grabbed it and took a large bite. “So good,” he repeated, his mouth full. “Open the cream.”

Sherlock popped open the jar, and took the lid off the jam, and reached up to feel around on the table for the knife he’d used earlier. Retrieving it, he grabbed one of the scones and spread it with a generous portion of cream and strawberry preserves. John had finished his half sandwich—he opened his mouth and Sherlock offered him the scone. John took a bite, then leaned in for a sloppy kiss.

Sherlock hummed his approval, mashing the sticky crumbs between their mouths before teasing them across John’s cheek. He pulled back and took a bite of scone himself, making sure to get jam and cream on his chin and cheek. John was already leaning in to tongue the sweet goo from Sherlock’s face before he swallowed. 

John reached for the knife and another scone. Sherlock ate a fresh strawberry, offering a bite to John, while he watched John slather the scone, getting cream and jam all over his fingers in the process. John presented the scone to Sherlock who took half of it in one bite and removed the other half from John’s trembling hand.

Sherlock dragged a finger through the cream and jam then reached across to paint them across John’s nipples. His mouth swiftly followed. He laved and sucked, grazing the pebbling flesh with his teeth. John clawed at Sherlock’s hair with jammy fingers, shaking with need now. 

“Sherlock…”

Sherlock groaned and lifted his mouth to John’s—the kiss was wet and so very sweet. He dragged John over the food between them, upsetting the tea, and into his lap. John straddled him again, one arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. He grasped Sherlock’s rock-hard cock in his free hand and began to stroke, grinding his dripping arse down onto his thighs.

Sherlock sucked John’s tongue into his mouth as he dug his hands into John’s hips, adding to the bruises he’d made earlier, urging him forward. 

John tore his mouth away. “Can’t wait—please…”

“Tell me,” Sherlock growled. “Tell me what you need.”

“Fuck me, Sherlock,” John begged, his breath short. He teased the tip of Sherlock’s prick with his thumb. “I need your huge fucking cock inside me—please.”

Sherlock kissed him hungrily before rolling them both to the floor. The scones were mashed under Sherlock’s thigh and the scattered strawberries were crushed under John’s hip as he rolled over on to his belly. John smeared the other half of his sandwich into the tea puddle under his shin as he spread his legs wide.

Sherlock buried himself in John’s willing body, immediately setting a punishing pace. John muttered something incoherent, only vaguely aware that he still had the knife in his hand as he scrabbled for purchase on the slick, gooey floor. The blade dug into the lino as Sherlock drove them both toward oblivion... 

\---------

John’s cheeks were blazing and his pulse thrumming as he stroked the scratch marks on the lino with a smile. 

Maybe he’d just leave them.


	3. Where to from here

John was in the middle of setting the coffee table back in place when the door to the sitting room was thrown open. Sherlock stood in the doorway for a moment, his eyes quickly raking the room.

“You’re cleaning.”

“I am, yeah,” John replied with a grin. “Well spotted.”

Sherlock crossed the room in two long strides and dragged John into his arms. John happily twined his arms around his alpha’s neck as Sherlock’s arms wrapped around his waist and drew him up onto his toes.

“You shouldn’t be doing anything strenuous. Nothing heavy, nothing dangerous. No smoke, no toxic chemicals, no body parts. I have to take care of you,” Sherlock rambled. “You’ll let me do that, won’t you?”

John pressed a kiss against his temple. “What’s gotten in to you?”

“Mycroft…”

“Sherlock, is he still alive?”

“What? Oh, yes, of course,” Sherlock let out an uneven breath. “I’ll explain it all later.” He eased his grip and let John’s feet slide back to the floor. “Come and sit. You need to rest.”

“You know I am the same man I was three days ago—more or less.” John allowed himself to be pulled back to the sofa. “I’m not going to break.”

Sherlock closed the door and removed his coat, dropping his phone on the table before settling into the corner of the sofa and stretching out his long legs. He pulled John down, wedging his bottom in against the back cushions and draping his legs across Sherlock’s lap. John was still wearing only his robe, so Sherlock reached for the blanket he’d brought out earlier and pulled it up and around his bare legs. He kept one arm wrapped firmly around John’s waist and tucked him in with a nod of satisfaction.

“I do kind of like this,” John admitted. “But Concerned Sherlock is going to take some getting used to.”

“It probably won’t last,” Sherlock responded mildly.

“No?”

“Hormonal response during the early stages of gestation.”

“I see,” John chuckled. “Been doing some reading, then?”

Sherlock was quiet, clearly considering something. “Do you want to have this child, John?”

“Bit late to be worrying about that,” John replied fondly, he rested his cheek against Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Not necessarily.”

John pulled back with a frown. “What are you suggesting?”

Sherlock scrutinized John’s face. “We do have some options.”

“I think we’ve used up our allotment of ‘get out of jail free’ cards, don’t you?”

“No one need know.”

“Is that what you want?” John felt a flutter of panic.

Sherlock scowled. “Of course it isn’t. This child will be you and I together in one human being—how could I not want that?”

John’s throat constricted a little at the idea of a part of Sherlock growing inside him. “Then what…?”

“You didn’t want to live as an omega, John. None of this was your choice.”

John considered the words carefully. “I won’t deny that I have never wanted to live the ‘domestic dream’ they try to sell omegas. I was never opposed to having children, really. I just didn’t want to be owned. I wanted…more.”

Sherlock stroked John’s arm, waiting.

“But I have more, don’t I?” John said thoughtfully. “I completed my education, I’ve travelled—I went to war, for god’s sake. I have a job I’m good at. And I have you. I like being with you.”

“I’m still an alpha.”

“But you’re exceptional,” John pointed out. “Believe me, love—I would not be having this conversation with any of the alphas I’ve known. And I’ve known a lot of them. I lived with them, fought beside them. They were decent enough in their way, but not one of them would have given a toss about whether or not their omegas wanted to breed.”

“I have been on hormone suppressants. I may get worse.”

John couldn’t help but grin at that. “Worse than…yes, well, I guess we’ll just have to cope with that if it happens. The point is you’re off them now,” He leaned in a little closer. “Look, I fell in love with you because you are not like anyone else. You’ve never done anything in your life the way you were supposed to, any more than I have. Why would this be any different?”

Sherlock kissed John’s neck. “We are unconventional, aren’t we?” 

“Mhmm.”

“So we can make this whatever we want.”

John pulled back. “Did you mean what you said about letting me continue to work?”

“Good god, of course I did,” Sherlock responded quickly. “I need you.”

“All right, then.”

“But we will have to be more careful. Things will have to change.”

“Nothing toxic or contagious—or rank—in the flat.”

“I can confine my more dangerous experiments to Bart’s.”

“I will have to be very selective about crime scenes, at least during the early stages. After that, I’ll just have to see them onscreen and you can fill me in when you get home,” John said matter-of-factly. “And I’ll have to take a break from practicing, for a while.”

“People will talk.”

John beamed. “They do little else.”

“But later, if you come out into the field with me…”

“Yes?”

“It will be dangerous.”

“Always has been,” John responded. “Soldier, remember? If I hadn’t been with you that night with the cabbie, this baby wouldn’t even be.”

“You don’t know that,” Sherlock replied indignantly. 

“Right, sorry,” John rolled his eyes. “You’re brilliant. You had it figured out. You were fine.”

Sherlock smirked at John’s sarcasm. “I do need you, I just don’t know what I will be like.”

“You’re worried about dominance behaviour, being territorial?” John asked. Sherlock nodded. “Don’t be. I don’t mind. I would do anything to keep you safe and I know you will always do the same for me—for us.”

“What if I can’t?”

“Oh, this is about Moriarty,” John said slowly. Sherlock nodded again. “Your brother has him, Sherlock. We’re okay.”

“But there could be someone else like him.”

“Let’s cross that bridge when we get to it,” John said softly. “Besides—as much as it pains me to say this—I’m sure your brother will be keeping a much more watchful eye.”

Sherlock considered this for some time. Finally he nodded.

“So keeping the baby, then,” John prompted.

Sherlock nodded again, but the brows were still drawn together.

“What is it, Sherlock?”

“I am not good with children.”

“How many do you know?”

Sherlock sighed, his expression pained. 

“So none, then,” John started to smile, but sobered at Sherlock’s expression. “Right, okay, but to be fair, you aren’t very good with adults, either. Yet somehow you’ve managed to make a few friends. One or two, at least.”

“ _Most_ adults are _boring_.”

“Ah, well, then you’re in luck. From what I’ve seen, kids are anything but.” John was cheerful. “They change every single day. They are always curious, always learning. They soak up everything around them—like you do. They will always be testing, trying to figure out how things work and how they fit into the world around them.”

“Really? That sounds promising.”

“Does, doesn’t it?”

“But there will be nappies.”

“Absolutely.”

“And vomit.”

“Yes.”

“Crying.”

“Without a doubt.”

“Babies don’t sleep much.”

“Neither do you, so that works out well.”

“I will care about him. Or her.”

John placed soft kisses on Sherlock’s cheek. “I hope so.”

“You know I…”

“But you care about me.”

Sherlock’s arm tightened around John. “Yes.”

“Well, then.”

“We’ll need help,” Sherlock sighed, looking around the somewhat tidied flat.

“I know it’s still a mess,” John said with a frown. “I ran out of time. I just couldn’t look at it anymore—it was so…”

“Nesting. In omegas it begins immediately following heat.”

“Sorry?”

Sherlock collected his phone from the table, tapped it twice and handed it to John. John peered at it.

“`What to Expect When You’re Expecting’?”

“Research.”

“I see,” John said with a grin. He pushed the blanket away and turned in Sherlock’s lap; sliding his legs back over until he was stretched out between the back of the sofa and Sherlock. He hooked one leg over Sherlock’s knee and reached up to capture his mouth in a soft kiss. “What else can we expect?”

Sherlock frowned. “We can’t. It’s too soon.”

John tugged on the belt from his robe and let it fall open. He pressed his warm, naked body up against Sherlock’s side and began unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt. “Says who?” He dragged a wet tongue from Sherlock’s collarbone to the sensitive spot just below his ear and began to suck.

“John, I don’t want to hurt you…” Sherlock sighed as John nibbled at his earlobe.

“I’m fine. Just think how nice this will be. We can take our time, make it last.” John’s voice was husky. He continued planting wet kisses around Sherlock’s neck. “Tell me—what else?”

Sherlock twined his fingers into John’s hair and pulled him back. 

“You will become very submissive to your alpha.”

“Is that so?” John smirked. “What are you going to make me do?”

They regarded each other for a moment before Sherlock leaned in, capturing John’s lower lip between his teeth and then sucking it into his mouth. John groaned his approval, spreading Sherlock’s shirt wide with warm palms. His hands slid down over the warm pale chest, over the planes of Sherlock’s abdomen, to tug at the waistband of the snug black trousers.

“What…else?” John panted between kisses. Sherlock slid his hand under the robe as John’s hand made short work of his flies. Sherlock broke the contact of their mouths with a gasp as John’s fingers closed around him.

“Parts of your body will become more sensitive,” Sherlock’s voice wavered as John stroked him.

“Such as?”

Sherlock smoothed his hand down and tweaked John’s nipple, rubbing his thumb over it until John moaned. Sherlock moved swiftly to attend to the other.

“Where…else?”

Sherlock let his hand glide over John’s belly then trailed a feather-light touch down over John’s stiffening cock. He wrapped his hand around it and stroked gently, once, twice.

“Yes!” John breathed. “Very sensitive.” He leaned into Sherlock’s touch, rocking with the movement of his hand as they continued to caress each other. “Wh-what..else?”

Sherlock teased John’s mouth with the tip of his tongue. “Your libido will increase substantially. Although that isn’t supposed to happen until the second trimester…”

“Maybe I’m just—oh, fuck, Sherlock—precocious,” John growled as Sherlock’s fingers teased him. He released Sherlock’s cock to tug at his trousers and pants. 

Sherlock grunted with impatience. He released John and slid out from under him to stand. He stripped quickly, his eyes never leaving John’s. John sat up and slid the robe from his arms before tugging it free and tossing it out onto the floor. 

When Sherlock was naked, John sat up and slid his feet to the floor. Sitting up on the edge of the sofa now, he grasped Sherlock’s hips and drew him forward into the space between his knees. John smiled up at Sherlock as he leaned in and placed a kiss on Sherlock’s thick, heavy cock. He slid one hand from a lean hip to encircle the engorged prick at the base while his tongue swirled around the sensitive head.

“John,” Sherlock moaned. His fingers twined into John’s hair. “Yes, like that. Suck me.”

John teased with his tongue before sliding the head into his mouth. It was a stretch, but he moaned as he suckled. He knew there was no way he’d ever be able to take all of Sherlock’s length in his mouth—it was going to be an awful lot of fun trying.

He twisted the hand at Sherlock’s root, stroking up in rhythm with the movement of his mouth. He relaxed his jaw as he sank a little further onto his alpha’s cock. He swallowed gently as he eased Sherlock in until he felt him hit the back of his throat. He started to gag, but drew a calming breath in through his nose and relaxed before pulling back up and sinking down again. He bobbed, his hand stroking, managing between the two to cover the breadth and length of Sherlock’s magnificent prick. 

Sherlock shuddered as John’s hand stroked over his knot and the hot slick tongue teased circles on the underside of his cock. It was so good. He held John’s head gently, trying hard not to pull or thrust his hips as John sucked him. He was not like other alphas—John said so. He was exceptional. 

Sherlock drifted on sensation as John continued his ministrations. Fellatio had never been of much interest to him, but this? With John? Oh, yes, he would want this again. John would…Sherlock’s eyes flew open as something occurred to him.

“Stop, stop.” He tugged gently at John’s hair to pull him back. John slid off his cock with a soft wet noise.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I just—” Sherlock hesitated, not sure how to express what he had been thinking. “I just thought you might…I want to taste you, too.”

“Oh,” John said with a pleased smile. “I’d like that. But I’m not quite done yet. Why don’t we try…”

Sherlock looked puzzled.

“You know,” John blushed. “At the same time, top to tail?”

“Ooooohhhh.” Sherlock nodded violently as understanding dawned and he found a visual he could reference mentally.

John shuffled back on the sofa, stretching out on his side against the back. He hooked his top foot over the back of the sofa, spreading his legs wide.

Sherlock bit down on his lip to stifle a groan, moving swiftly to stretch out on his side facing John, his head at the opposite end of the sofa. John lifted Sherlock’s top leg over his own head to hook the ankle over the back of the sofa, wasting no time before burying his face back in Sherlock’s groin. He resumed his rhythm—hand and mouth—only hesitating briefly as he felt Sherlock’s mouth near his own throbbing prick. 

Sherlock tried to retrieve his brain from where it had drifted—between his legs with the cock John was so expertly sucking—and began with an exploration. An omega’s cock was generally considered to be a secondary sexual organ, but Sherlock had come to realize that John’s was somewhat larger than the average. It was, in fact, quite lovely. He trailed his wet, open mouth over the soft flesh of John’s lower belly and then licked a stripe from root to tip on John’s hard cock. He was rewarded with a shudder and a muffled moan. John’s mouth on his cock hesitated oh so briefly.

Sherlock smiled. He flattened his tongue down the side of John’s cock as he drew the length into his mouth. He sucked hard, tugging a little with his hand. John’s body shuddered again and John moaned. Sherlock lost his rhythm as the vibration of that moan teased his sensitive flesh in John’s mouth. He paused briefly trying to concentrate on what he was doing but began again as John edged his hips forward in a silent plea. Sherlock chuckled, giving himself over completely to the salty taste of John in his mouth.

For long minutes there was no sound in the room save for muffled moans, grunts of satisfaction and the persistent slick friction of mouths and tongues. 

Finally, John pulled back. “Have to stop—god, too good. I don’t want to come like this.” He stroked a hand down the back of one long, pale thigh. “I am so wet. I need you inside me, love…oh, god…”

John groaned as Sherlock let his cock slide from his mouth, allowing teeth to graze ever so gently over the tip. “Fuuuck, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock chuckled, his deep voice rumbling through his chest. John reached around and pinched his bum.

“Alpha bastard.”

“Alpha bastard who’s about to fuck you into the sofa.” He rolled off and slid to his knees on the floor. 

John quickly slid around until he was lying flat on his back. He tugged on Sherlock’s hand. “Yes, please.”

Sherlock slid up and over him, supporting his weight on his hands and bending in for a messy kiss. He sucked John’s tongue into his mouth as he settled himself between his partner’s thighs. He slid a hand between them and continued to lightly stroke John’s erection as he curled in to drag his tongue over one sensitive nipple. John gasped as Sherlock covered it with his mouth and sucked hard. 

John was arching into him—Sherlock released his cock and sought the drenched heat of John’s cleft. He probed gently, sliding two fingers in easily.

“Now, Sherlock, oh god, please fuck me now. I want to watch you as you come inside me.” 

Sherlock nodded mutely, settling between John’s damp thighs. He grasped both of John’s hips in his hands, tugging John into position.

John lifted up, wrapping his legs around Sherlock’s ribs. Sherlock rubbed the tip of his cock into John’s cleft, mingling his own pre-come with the natural lubricant John’s body provided. It wasn’t quite as dramatic as during heat, but it was more than enough. John moaned, canting his hips toward Sherlock. 

Sherlock pushed in slowly, allowing only the head to slip in past the slightly loosened ring of muscle. “Don’t tease!” John begged, pushing down onto him.

Sherlock edged in, savouring the differences in John’s body when not in heat, and the erotic thrill of feeling every inch of John’s slick passage when he wasn’t biologically driven merely to bury his cock and spill his seed.

The sensation robbed him of coherent thought. He groaned, feeling every ripple as John responded to the brushing of Sherlock’s cock against his sensitive glands. His body clenched around Sherlock, and Sherlock gave in to the impulse to bury himself in the welcoming heat. When he bottomed out, his balls brushing against John’s arse, they stared at each other. 

“Oh, god, just look at you,” John said breathlessly. “You are so beautiful like this.” 

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile. “So are you.” John was so very, very clever. 

Sherlock withdrew from John slowly and quickly sank back again. John’s breath caught in his throat. “More, love. Please.”

Sherlock began to move, unable to look away from the sight of his mate’s face flushed with pleasure. And the beautiful dark blue eyes heavy-lidded with lust. He sped up, revelling in the changes in John’s breathing until he realized that this would bring things to an end too quickly.

He slowed, finding a rhythm that kept them both on the edge. John’s fingers dug into Sherlock’s triceps, panting and occasionally keening when Sherlock angled a thrust just so.

Sherlock had no idea how long this continued before he could feel John beginning to quiver with the need to come. He reached between them and began to stroke his cock. He could feel his own release coiling in his belly; he drove into John’s body with abandon.

“Sherlock!” John’s cry was desperate, his eyes closing only briefly as he neared completion. “Yes, fuck, yes—” 

“So close,” Sherlock moaned. He pounded into John, unable to remember or care that his omega was probably still sensitive from their sometimes violent three-day mating. 

“I’m coming,” John panted. His body began to tighten around Sherlock. “Yes! Fuck, Sherlock, god I love you…”

John’s cock pulsed his release over Sherlock’s hand and his own belly as Sherlock hammered his cock into John’s constricted passage. The heat and friction pushed him past the point of endurance as he buried himself balls-deep in his mate with a guttural cry.

Their eyes remained locked as Sherlock came inside John, enjoying the power of the single orgasm. There would be no knot this time.

As the tremors eased, Sherlock kissed John deeply and tenderly. He smiled as he drew back. “This was a very good idea.”

John sighed his agreement, stroking Sherlock’s chest. “I probably won’t be able to walk tomorrow, but that—” He leaned up for another kiss. “That, my love, was worth it.”


	4. Begin as we mean to go on

John was fastening the buttons of his favourite plaid shirt as he entered the sitting room. Sherlock was sitting at the desk, his phone in hand. He was already turned out in a charcoal-on-charcoal ensemble, his freshly washed hair drying in unstudied, untidy waves.

They’d spent a pleasant night sleeping together in the relative cleanliness of John’s bed. John woke tired and sore, but very, very happy. Sherlock had said very little, but his expression of something like contentment was enough.

John watched Sherlock’s response to the text. “Lestrade?”

“Hmm.” Sherlock stood and reached for his coat. He watched as John picked up his jacket and started to pull it on. “What are you doing?”

“I’m coming with you,” John replied calmly. “We agreed, remember?”

“Yes, but I thought—” Sherlock stopped. John was trying hard not to look crestfallen. “I just thought you might be tired so soon after your heat…and yesterday.”

John smiled tentatively, edging closer to Sherlock for a quick kiss. “I feel great. Brilliant, actually. Must be the hormones.”

Sherlock gazed at his mate; John did look very robust. His golden skin had a rosy cast to it and his eyes were bright. He was glowing. Sherlock considered this, trying to analyze the powerful instincts he was feeling. He found, to his relief, that it was relatively easy to override them. “Of course. Then we go together.”

John took his hand as they strode toward the stairs.

In the cab, John watched out the window while Sherlock focussed on the photos Lestrade had already sent him. There was something very strange about the position of the body.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“I hadn’t thought about…” John hesitated. “They will all know what I am. What we are.”

“So?” Sherlock was distracted.

The majority of police officers, as most of the members of the armed forces, were alphas. There was no way Lestrade and his team would not smell another alpha. They certainly wouldn’t be able to mistake a breeding omega. At this point, his condition would protect him, as much as Sherlock would, but still… 

“They’ll treat me differently,” John said. He had never lived publicly as an omega. He didn’t really know how he felt about being viewed as someone else’s property.

Sherlock looked up. “Probably,” he replied bluntly. “But that will change the more they work with you, and realize that you are the same man you were before.”

John looked a little more hopeful. “Maybe.”

“We do not offer them an option, John,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly, once again absorbed in the photos on his phone. “You work with me, that is all they need to know. We begin as we mean to go on.” He smiled to himself. “Everything will be fine as long as you don’t call me a Neanderthal.”

“I—did I?” John looked embarrassed as he scoured his rather patchy memories. Then he grinned. “Yes, yes. That’s right. I did. But you started it.”

“Oh? And what did I say?”

John slid across the seat and snuggled into Sherlock’s side. He leaned in and whispered into his ear, “You called me your sweet cunt.”

Sherlock finally looked up from his phone, his gaze hot. John was a little flushed. The kiss was languid but searing.

Finally John pulled back, resisting the urge to drop his hand into Sherlock’s lap. He drew a shuddering breath. “Okay, new rule,” he said weakly. “Anything we happen to remember saying during my heats, we delete. Agreed?”

Sherlock nodded, turning his attention back to the phone and shifting uncomfortably.

Their trip gave them both time to calm down and Sherlock’s quiet confidence had cheered John considerably. He was feeling quite optimistic by the time they reached Wimbledon. Sherlock leapt from the cab as soon as it slowed, leaving John to follow in his wake as usual.

Bad luck, however. Donovan was waiting near the yellow tape surrounding the crime scene.

“Better late than never,” she sniped. “What took you so lo—?” 

She trailed off as she caught Sherlock’s scent. Her eyes widened a bit and her aggressive demeanour eased as she recognized another alpha rather than the beta she had been expecting. “Well, well. Full of surprises, aren’t you?”

Sherlock snorted in derision and ducked under the tape. John moved to follow trying to stay as far away from Sally as possible. It was no use.

“What the hell?” Donovan grabbed John’s arm as he straightened. She leaned in and inhaled deeply near his neck. “Oh my god, you’re an omega? How have you been hiding that? You smell lovely,” she breathed.

“Please, don’t,” John said firmly. 

Sally took hold of both arms and held him in place as she inhaled again. “What’s that smell? Wait, I know that…you’re breeding. Aren’t you the lucky little omega. And who is….oh shit, of course. You’re his. Didn’t I warn you to stay away from him?”

She didn’t get a chance to say anything else as she looked up to find Sherlock towering over her, nostrils flared, pupils dilated. She removed her hands from John, holding them up in a submissive gesture. She knew better than to pick a fight with an alpha protecting their mate.

John was anxious to alleviate the tension. He grabbed Sherlock’s hand and tugged him back toward the crime scene. “C’mon,” he urged. “Dead people to see.”

Sherlock followed, staring back at Sally with menace for the first few steps. He turned as John reached Lestrade.

Lestrade started to speak then stopped. He took a deep breath through his nose, trying not to look like he was sniffing the air. He glanced in confusion at Sherlock and then at John.

“Uh, would someone like to explain this to me?”

Sherlock sighed heavily. “I’m an alpha, John is my omega. We’re bonded and John is breeding. What else do you need to know?”

“But how did I not know this? You were a beta. You both were.”

“It really is a long story, Lestrade,” Sherlock replied wearily. “Don’t we have more important things to do?”

He stepped past the DI, shoving past a gaping Anderson to crouch near the body. Lestrade turned to John with a worried expression.

“I can explain everything,” John said with a half smile. “At the pub sometime.”

Lestrade shook his head—there was no way he was going to the pub with someone else’s omega. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. And neither is this. If people found out what you were doing, that I was putting a breeding omega in harm’s way...”

“Greg, I’ve been in harm’s way for the better part of two decades. I was wounded. In a war.”

“Yeah, but…” Greg stared at him for a moment. “How the hell did you pull that off anyway?”

“It really is a very long story.”

“John!”

Lestrade smirked a little. “I suppose I should have figured out about him—bloody imperious bastard.”

John smiled at that, turning to make his way to the body. He strode to where Sherlock was crouched and bent down on one knee beside him. John swallowed hard—there was no blood, but the victim had been dead long enough to smell.

Lestrade was close by, shortly joined by a very irritated beta.

“This is not right, you know,” Anderson whined. “We can’t have an omega hanging around crime scenes. His scent will be a distraction to everyone. And if he really is breeding…”

“Trust me,” Lestrade said evenly, with a faint smile. “He’s carrying. Seen mine through it three times.”

“It’s bad enough we have to deal with that lunatic, let alone his pregnant slut.”

Lestrade glanced nervously at Sherlock, but the detective gave no sign that he had heard. John didn’t look up, but his cheeks blazed. Lestrade scowled at Anderson.

“Well, John?” Sherlock asked. John studied the body, trying to follow Sherlock’s train of thought to identify what he was asking after. The position of the body was strange—it was as though the limbs had been arranged with great care following death. But why…ah!

John leaned up and shared a smile with Sherlock. “You’re right. It’s very subtle. Could be as little as six to eight weeks.”

Sherlock’s pleased expression caused John to blush with pride.

“Lestrade, you will want to confine your interviews to caretakers who work in rehabilitation facilities for spinal cord injuries.”

“What?” Anderson’s voice shrill.

Sherlock allowed John to respond. “Muscle atrophy is consistent with a recent SCI. I would guess she has been confined to a wheelchair for less than three months.”

Lestrade nodded, waiting for Sherlock to fill it in. “She was clearly killed elsewhere, as your attendant moron here has already confirmed. However: she is wearing shoes but they show no wear on the soles—scuffing on the sides only, as though they routinely brush against each other and other objects; her body has been carefully arranged to appear, at first glance, that she fell backward following a struggle, however the position of her legs belies that theory as does the muscle atrophy. The staging of this scene is meant to reinforce the power the killer needed to feel over her.”

Lestrade nodded again, glancing at John who was gazing at his mate with undisguised admiration.

Sherlock continued. “Someone who feels marginalized—a medical support worker, perhaps—someone who has contact with recent SCI victims—who perhaps has been the target of some of their frustration. Male judging by the size and shape of the footprints over there—oh, did Anderson miss those?” He was searching for something on his phone. “Of course you could wait for the post mortem results to confirm the SCI, but I suspect that will be moot when you find the wheelchair here.” He turned his phone to Lestrade.

“Okay,” Lestrade said. He looked back at Donovan who had moved close enough to see the map on the phone. “You heard him. Get on with it.”

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock said as Donovan disappeared with two other officers.

“Yeah, yeah,” Lestrade replied with a half-grin. He glanced at John briefly, noting the slightly greenish tinge to his colouring. “You all right, John?”

John nodded swiftly. “But if you gentlemen will excuse me,” he said politely, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “I am going to go and vomit.”

John walked briskly toward the alley. Sherlock watched his progress, waiting until was out of earshot. He glanced at Lestrade; the look on the DI’s face was disapproving.

“Is there something else you should be doing right now?” Lestrade asked gruffly.

Sherlock looked again at where John was disappearing behind some bins and then back at Lestrade.

“In a moment.”

He moved so quickly, neither Anderson nor Lestrade had the opportunity to respond. In truth, Lestrade was not so inclined anyway. He watched, calmly, as Sherlock drove his fist into Anderson’s face.

When Anderson was lying on the ground, bleeding—his nose obviously broken—Sherlock turned back to Lestrade with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh, go on,” Lestrade said with a smirk. “Bastard had it coming. I didn’t see anything.”

“I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention this to John.”

“Why? You were defending his honour—most omegas love that.”

“John is not most omegas.” Sherlock turned with a satisfied smile and started toward his mate. He walked at first, but soon found himself at a brisk jog. John needed him, after all.

“You can say that again,” Lestrade watched him go with a shake of his head. “And just when I thought they couldn’t get any weirder.”


	5. Epilogue

“Are you all right?”

John grinned as he stepped from the cab with the child safety seat in his hand. “Stop fussing,” he said fondly. “I’m fine.”

Sherlock was holding the cab door with one hand, steadying John by the elbow with the other. He led John to the door and returned to the cab to pay the driver. John waited patiently, gazing at their sleeping son.

Only two days old and already he looked exactly like Sherlock, John thought. A warm glow permeated his chest as he stroked one finger across the soft baby cheek. Michael Mycroft Watson Holmes had been born with bright blue-green eyes and a dusting of dark hair. John looked forward to seeing if any of his own features emerged as the baby grew.

“Right. Shall we?” Sherlock appeared at John’s side an unlocked the door. He pushed it wide and allowed John to enter ahead of him. John stopped in the hall.

“Oh, look!” 

A colourful banner had been strung over the stairs: “Welcome Baby Boy!”

Sherlock looked faintly annoyed, turning to close the door behind him. He was still struggling with the more “treacly” aspects of parenthood.

“Mrs. Hudson?” he suggested.

“Probably,” John replied with a grin. “Though I’m willing to wager that Harry and Clara were here as well.” His sister and her partner had become very sentimental since discovering that they, too, were expecting. But in fact they had been incredibly supportive and wonderful since Sherlock and John’s bonding ceremony.

It had been a little more formal than John would have liked. He hadn’t given much thought to the social connections he would be acquiring in officially becoming a Holmes. Still, it had been lovely, their friends had been there (Lestrade had pretended not to cry even as he’d shared a packet of tissues with Mrs. Hudson) and Mycroft had paid for the whole thing.

Sherlock had explained everything to him, of course. John had been so relieved. In fact, he’d felt a rush of real tenderness for his new brother-in-law. It was probably the hormones, but he was incredibly grateful. God only knows what might have happened to him, and to Sherlock, without Mycroft.

“Come on. Upstairs. You need to rest.”

John nodded, suddenly feeling the aches in his body. Pregnancy had been relatively uneventful, but labour and delivery were another matter. He allowed Sherlock to take the baby and usher him up the stairs.

When they reached the door to the sitting room, John smiled at its pristine condition. True to his word, Sherlock had arranged for permanent lab space at Bart’s (partially funded through Lestrade’s unit) and immediately engaged a cleaning service. The flat was always immaculate now—which pleased Mrs. Hudson to no end.

In fact, Sherlock had been remarkable throughout the pregnancy. He was still Sherlock, of course: he went days without speaking much, particularly while on a case; he was messy and unpredictable and dismissive of pretty much everyone.

And yet, John’s wellbeing had never been far from his mind. His predictably alpha possessive behaviour had been tempered by unspoken tenderness. He’d made tea. He’d cooked. He’d rubbed John’s feet and run his baths and managed to anticipate almost everything John could think of to ask for before a word was said.

The baby had even become the most remarkable cure for Sherlock’s boredom.

Any time he’d become restless, John had talked to him about the baby’s current neurological development, or suggested that they should research schools, or asked about the optimal placement of furniture in the baby’s room. All things that might have been “dull” to Sherlock in the past, they had seemed to intrigue and delight him.

Mycroft had been delirious. Well, delirious for Mycroft: he’d smiled broadly and patted John’s arm.

John shook off his reverie and allowed Sherlock to herd him toward the sofa. He sat, Sherlock settling in beside him, the baby still in the carrier at their feet. They watched their son’s soft breathing in silence for a few moments.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“I’d love to take a shower before the nurse arrives.”

Sherlock looked at him, puzzled. “Is there a problem?”

John smiled. “No. I just—will you be all right with him for a few minutes?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Okay.” John held up his hands in surrender. He leaned in and placed a kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. “Back soon.”

John made his way to the bathroom with a smile. Sherlock hadn’t been kidding about asking Mycroft for help. He’d never mentioned it again; it had simply arrived.

Though his continuing to work had raised many eyebrows, John had persisted until the end of his second trimester. Returning home, exhausted, following his final shift at the surgery, John had received a text: 

_Her name is Helen.  
MH_

He’d arrived at 221B to find a short woman in her mid-fifties stepping out of a black saloon. A doula and a baby nurse, Helen had proven to be invaluable during the final stages of pregnancy and John was secretly delighted that she would be staying on for the first few months of Michael’s life. 

Fifteen minutes later, clean and wrapped in his robe, John returned to the sitting room. He stopped in the middle of the floor.

Sherlock was stretched out against the arm of the sofa. The baby was cradled against his chest, head tucked under Sherlock’s chin. They were both sound asleep. 

John crossed to them silently and leaned over to press his lips first to the soft down of the baby’s head and then to Sherlock’s dark curls.

“Mine.”


End file.
